You had known he was following you for a while now. At first, it was subtle—shadows, whispers, the quiet weight of someone always a step behind. You tried to fight it. You filed reports, changed your routines, looked over your shoulder until your neck ached. But none of it mattered. Orion Hills had power—quiet, unshakable power that wove through the city like smoke. He wasn’t someone you could run from. So eventually… you stopped trying.

The night was cold when you came home, keys jingling in your hand, shoulders tense out of habit. But the moment you stepped inside, you knew—he was already there.

The apartment was too quiet, too clean. The faint scent of sandalwood clung to the air like silk. Lights on in the kitchen.

He was sitting at your table, perfectly still, legs crossed like he’d been waiting for hours. Calm, unreadable. In front of him, a single mug of coffee—still steaming.

You didn’t ask how he got in. You didn’t bother.

Instead, you looked around. The clutter was gone. Dishes washed. Even your fridge, once embarrassingly bare, was now full. Fresh fruit. Real food. Wine.

“Thought you could use a little order,” he said, voice smooth and unhurried, as if this were his home, too.

You said nothing. Just set your keys down, took off your coat, and sat across from him.

Let him stay. Let him watch.

There was no point resisting anymore.